


Ice Ice Baby

by kiyyeisanerd



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Banter, Extended Metaphors, Ghost Sex, He's already dead and a ghost when the fic starts, M/M, Not at all subtle gatsby ref, Talk of psychoanalysis, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 17:16:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16685782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyyeisanerd/pseuds/kiyyeisanerd
Summary: Dave gets it on with his ghost boyfriend. John graciously staves off the Texas heat with his spooky ghost powers.





	Ice Ice Baby

The death of a close friend is a tragic occurrence inarguably bound to wreak havoc upon the fragile human psyche. Unfortunately, no psyche is more fragile than that of a teenager. A teenager’s psyche is not like the thick skin of a boxer-in-training whose physique hardens with each successive blow—it’s more like a precarious Jenga tower that moves a step closer to collapse every time some asshole removes another brick.

After hours of carefully trying to maintain the structural integrity of the tower while simultaneously fucking it up as much as possible, the thing inevitably gets knocked down by someone’s drunk uncle who trips on an ottoman and falls straight into the damn game. The players groan in dismay but, like clockwork, they begin to rebuild the tower. Rinse and repeat. Sometimes the uncle comes before the reconstruction process is finished. Those are the hard days. And the cycle never ends.

Well, maybe it ends when you become a “real adult”, but that’s not for you to say. You’re still playing psychological Jenga at 19.

The Jenga thing is a pretty good extended metaphor. The players kind of represent your frantic but unfruitful attempts to recompose your dumb hormonal brain in the aftermath of adversity, and the uncle represents capitalism or whatever. Or maybe the players represent the flawed American education system that purports a message of growth and self-improvement but really only serves to bring people down? Yeah, you think that second thing is what you were going for.

The more you think about it, the more you think your internal monologues are starting to sound exactly like your cousin’s long winded psychological lectures. What the hell happened to your usual brand of part-slapstick part-political satire lyricism? You wonder what freudian defense mechanism this is. Reaction formation? No, uh, projection?

This is exactly the problem—a year ago you wouldn’t have even known what defense mechanisms were, but you let Rose Lalonde jam her cold, clammy, psychoanalytic fingers in your skull and now you can’t escape them. The psycho-blabbery never ends. Never. Just like the Jenga cycle. Build tower, go through psychoanalysis, watch as society slowly breaks you to pieces, get compromised by shitty uncle capitalism, rebuild tower. And then again and again.

As you walk down a fairly deserted street in Dallas cooking like crispy bacon in the July heat, you mull over your Jenga metaphor and worry that you might be directly pre-uncle right now. Considering the shit you’ve gone through this year, things at the moment are going pretty fuckin good. Too good. Any second now a proverbial drunk relative is going to crash into your brain tower and ruin your whole setup. Or a non proverbial one. That would be unfortunate.

This train of thought you’re riding is goddamn depressing, and you think it would be heading straight for mental breakdown-ville if it wasn’t too hot to even think about overthinking. Overthinking more than you already are, you mean—this amount of overthinking is typical for you.

You round a corner and walk another block until you reach your ugly concrete apartment building. In the elevator—fuck stairs, for multiple reasons—you remember the gamestop bag you’re toting, and peek inside to check out your sweet loot. _The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild_. Aw hells yeah. As much as you hate accepting financial boons from the Lalondes, it was pretty sweet when your cousins bought you a switch for your birthday last year, so you’ve been attempting to become more… receptive to their olive branches. Olive branches filled with sexy cash.

You guess if they’ve got such a hankering to contribute to the welfare of their needy kinsmen, you’re happy to bear the brunt of that compulsion. Free money is totally cool. It’s them who needs to scratch the charity itch so bad, anyway. Not like you’re mooching or anything. “That’s rationalization,” a tiny Freud in your head scolds. Whatever, asshole.

So, in keeping with your policy of only-somewhat-mooching, you decided to go out and buy a new sick game with a gift card you’ve had sitting around for a month. Your aunt, Rose and Roxy’s mom, sent you a hundred bucks in gamestop credit the thirteenth of last April. Which happens to be the birthday of your dead best friend.

You know it was Mom Lalonde who sent this gracious gift and not either of her daughters because she knows the least about how to be a normal fucking person. Anyone who’s taken a psychology course or even been to therapy is well aware that sending family members money on their dead friends’ birthdays is absolutely not, under any circumstances, an acceptable thing to do. Aunts cannot fill the voids in their nephews’ hearts with cheeky money. Lucky for her, you didn’t get any kind of gift-card induced existential crisis, because there really is no void in your heart ripe for the filling. Because your best friend isn’t actually gone.

He’s dead, sure. John Egbert died for like a couple minutes January of this year and he’s been a ghost ever since.

Sometimes you just think about that fact. John Egbert is a ghost. The sheer irony of it stuns you. Nothing could be more in character. Lady luck rewarded him for his dedication to ghostbusters, you guess. Personally, you have no long-running obsession with a specific kind of undead being, but you almost feel like you should start getting really into vampires. Maybe when you kick the bucket fate might give you a pair of sick fangs.

So that’s where your life is right now: your dead best friend is a ghost who lives in your apartment. And that’s why you kind of feel like your mental jenga tower is pre-drunk uncle.

You’re still standing in the elevator. Your biological clock beeps at you because hey, dude, this is taking much longer than the ride up to the top floor usually takes, and you… Oh.

You were so absorbed in thought that you forgot to hit the button. Brainless fuckin idiot. You sheepishly mash floor 7 and lean back against the wall as the elevator jerks to life, making that godawful whirring noise shitty Texan elevators always make.

All this internal monologuing is going to give you a headache. You could probably use a therapist. Too bad they usually stop responding to your emails after you mention the whole ghost thing. You’re a lost cause, you guess.

Rose is your acting psychoanalyst for now, as she was always destined to be, but you unfortunately can’t tell her about John being your spooky incorporeal roommate boyfriend. She would flip the fuck out, so you’re keeping things on the dl.

Really, what’s wrong with having a dead-friend-ghost for a roommate and romantic partner? Sure, things were weird when he first showed up in your room three weeks after dying all transparent and blue and glowy and shit. You _may_ have flipped your shit like a cirque du soleil acrobat. Boy that was a wild day.

You could rehash it in your mind right now, but your elevator ride is almost up. What are you gonna do, insert an elaborate flashback smack dab in the middle of your narrative? Have a sportsy lady narrate it while you gossip with her at some kind of speakeasy, since the man of your dreams is too much of a chump to explain his tragic backstory to your face, and obsessed with a girl too attached to the illusion of materialism to dump her gross polo playing husband? If you were to pull a move like that, you’d be sure to obliquely acknowledge the homoerotic subtext that underlies your every thought and decision. F. Scott Fitzgerald wouldn’t have shit on you. Except maybe a reputation as one of the greatest American authors of all time. But hey, you have a boyfriend, and he never managed that much.

You are well aware that seeing the ghosts of dead loved ones isn’t normal. You probably have a skeptic episode at least once a week where you wonder if John is all in your head. But the way you reason it, even if this whole ghost bf thing is a product of your imagination, it’s not really hurting you. You’re starting uni courses in the city at the end of the summer, you have a job, and you’re making ample side cash running your illustrious webcomic Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff. Things are going swimmingly. You know your relatives wonder what you get up to all day “living alone,” but they can tell you’re more stable than you were in January, probably more stable than you’ve been in most of your life.

So you’re just going to keep suspending your disbelief about paranormal realism until something upsetting happens. Like finding out your whole life is a dream and you’ve been locked in a mental hospital for five months. Haha, lets uh, not think about that particular possibility too hard.

The elevator dings. You step out into the hallway and make quick work of unlocking your door and locking it again behind you. You remove your shoes and—

“Boo!”

You yelp and drop sweet, sweet Link onto the floor. Thank god games come in cases, and cartridges don’t break easy anyway. To your left, your spectral roommate is standing right behind where the door opened up, laughing his spooky ass off at you.

You sigh and pick up the game. “What are you trying to do, holy shit, give me a heart attack? Are you training for the scare olympics? Some kind of Monsters Inc. bullshit up in here?”

John laughs some more and leans against the wall for support. He’s really getting a kick out of this shit. “I was going to do the thing with the water bucket propped up on the halfway ajar door, but I thought you might have an anxiety attack if you saw it left open.” He giggles at you like some kind of teenage girl. “Oh man, what a prank!”

“Glad you at least had the sense not to leave the fuckin door open and drench me with water.”

He continues snickering like an imbecile. You feel your face heat up, mostly out of gay sentiment but in all honestly, a little bit out of embarrassment. You toss him the gamestop bag and make your way over to the couch. “Got us some sweet loot.”

John lights up upon seeing the game inside its plastic prison. “No way!”

“Yeah way,” you reply from the couch, “Gerard Way, dude. Get over here and pop that bad boy in the switcheroo.” You instantly regret calling your beloved nintendo console a switcheroo.

John meanders over toward the TV as he opens the game sleeve. He crouches down to pop out the cartridge and insert it, and you kinda… stare straight through his head at the packaging. Perks of having a translucent boyfriend. You snort, cause it always kind of tickles your funny bone how the tiny ass switch games come in regular sized sleeve thingies. They’re like little baby games wearing coats that are way too big for them. Pfft, baby games.

John turns back to you and arches an eyebrow. “Something funny?”

“Yeah, but it’s not your weird glassy ghost flesh for once. Just the game packaging.”

He makes a face. “Try saying ‘weird glassy ghost flesh’ five times fast, I guarantee one of the times you’ll say ‘weird gassy ghost flash’.”

“Cool, that’s what your farts are called now. Officially.”

You do not see John’s facial expression as he turns back around to fiddle with the switch, but you imagine he’s probably trying not to laugh at your hilarious fart joke. When he’s done setting up Zelda, he settles down beside you on the couch, hands suspiciously devoid of switch controllers. You lift an eyebrow inquisitively, which he probably can’t see under your shades.

Oh. Oh, Jesus. He’s got that look on his face. That look when he wants—

“Dave, I know you want to crack into this game, but I have been so lonely all day.” He looks at you with the gayest expression you’ve ever seen and makes a sorry attempt at being seductive by playing with his collar. Okay, maybe it’s not a sorry attempt—it’s not melting your dick off, but dammit he’s cute when he’s trying to be sexy.

Yep. Yeah, this is what a horny ghost looks like. A sight you know all too well.

You put a hand on his shoulder and tell him, “John, my very attractive and very sexually appealing boyfriend. You know my man rod feels all kinds of ways about you, but dude. It’s the middle of the day in the middle of July in the middle of Texas. Much too hot to put Dave jr. to work. That would be violating some kind of employee health code or some shit.”

John looks a little surprised. “Oh, is it hot?”

“Fuck, man, it’s 96 degrees out, yeah it’s hot, it’s hotter than Satan’s asscrack in this hellstate.”

He looks at you like you’re an idiot. You stare back. He lifts a finger as if to boop you on the nose and—

Ooohhh? Ohhhhh. Cold boop. You get chills through your nose and your cheekbones and your sinuses and all the way down your spine. Kind of like a brain freeze but not painful and horrible.

John laughs at the hilarious expression you’re probably sporting. “Ghost magic, dummy!”

“You mean you could fuckin conjure chill like some kind of ice wizard this whole time and you didn’t tell me?” you ask, rightfully a little fuckin peeved.

“I can't tell how hot it is! That is not how nerves work when you are a ghost!”

Lame excuses. You can’t believe you’ve been missing out on this shit all summer. He lowers his chin and gives you what’s supposed to be a seductive look over his glasses, but he just kinda looks like he’s… about to make love to a math problem. What a nerd.

“Can I say ‘I will only do more spooky ice magic on you if you will have sex with me now,’ or is that unhealthy?”

You shake your head. “Nah, not unhealthy, that’s just establishing a barter economy. Chills for sex, it’s a fair trade. Plus, if we’re eliminating heat from the equation, I’m down to clown as all get out. So long as you help me regulate homeostasis with your Mr. Freeze fingers, Casper.”

John beams at you and his cute little buck teeth stick out all adorable and shit. God, you are so gay. You can’t believe you spent all of high school repressing your homo feels for your best bro only to fuck his ghost when you moved out.

Speaking of fucking his ghost, the ghost in question leans in and kisses you, sliding a translucent hand half under the fabric of you shorts on your inner thigh. You have just enough time to remove your shades and drop them on the floor before he reaches your lips.

Cutting right to the chase, huh. Grabbing the chicken by the head. Saddling the horse with—okay, you’re stopping now. Time to focus on the sweet tricks John’s tongue is doing.

As you make face magic, you pull up the hem of his corporeal-only-to-you graphic tee and place a hand on his chest. You still think his musculature is rather impressive, for a guy who sits around and plays video games all day. And is also dead. You roll one of his nipples between your fingers and smile against his lips as his breath hitches.

Just like that, he’s pushing you down onto the couch and climbing on top of you. You obligingly pull your legs up and slide to lie on your back, knees partially bent and splayed out to the sides to make room for the handsome ghost between them.

“Hold up,” you interject, “don’t you wanna remove some of my worldly garments before we become dude limb soup?”

“We’re already sort of dude limb soup, but yeah—” John sits up a tad and hoists your knees up so your ass is in the air. “Take off your pants.”

A laugh escapes you as you shimmy your fashionable grey shorts off and let john toss them across the floor. You perform a similar maneuver on your boxers. Sweet. 2x double stripdown combo executed successfuly, and you didn’t even have to do any stupid sexy bullshit or put on stockings and garters. Perfect.

You blink and John’s clothes completely disappear in true ghost magic fashion.

“That was fast,” you barely get done saying before he attacks your face again. Attacks is a strong word, maybe, but damn the dude is eager. You guess it’s not good for his sex drive to keep him cooped up in your broiling apartment day in and day out, but hey, he’s invisible to everyone except you and he might be a hallucination, so he doesn’t have many other options. You wonder how many times he’s been sitting around bored out of his ass and jerked off in your room while you were gone?

You thread a hand in his hair and pull his lips closer in an effort to mask the noise you just made at the thought of him jerkin it to your empty house. That shouldn’t be so endearingly arousing. Your dick catches against the side of John’s leg as he leans in closer to kiss down your jaw and around behind your ear, and you groan, arching your back.

Now, the attention from John’s mouth is great and all, make no mistake about that, but Christ—even with him only giving off a vague ephemeral sort of body heat, you are already sweating. “John,” you manage between two breaths, “fuck, uh—some of that coldness magic would be great right now, if you’re not too busy tickling your dick and nibbling at my—”

You make one of those dumb twink-in-a-porno noises as John hits you with a wave of vanilla ice straight from his tongue and down your throat. Ice ice baby. Dammit that’s a good song. “Alright stop, collaborate and _listen_ , Ice is back with my brand new _invention_ ” plays in your head as cold rockets down your esophagus like you swallowed enchanted polar bear dung. It radiates through your abdomen and—you really try not to use cliched fanfic epithets, not within the safety and freedom of your own mind thank you very much, but you really feel the chills down to your toes. In contrast to the refreshing coolness you’re getting everywhere else, a heat pools in your groin, causing you to jerk your hips up into John’s.

He seems pleased with himself and runs his hands over your chest in that possessive kind of way he always does. Then he slides them lower and gives your dick a couple much appreciated pumps before moving to finger your ass. For a second your think his fingers are freezing, but you realize you are experiencing the sensory opposite of that thing that happens when you touch cold shit and feel like it’s damp even though its not.

He’s not cold, he’s wet. His fingers are lubed up and ready to go. Ghost magic, as usual. You’re used to the autolube trick at this point. You gasp as he circles a finger around your hole.

“Temperature better?” he leans in close to your ear as he asks, kissing your neck, finger still circling you.

“Much better, thanks,” you reply, breathy. You close your eyes and moan at the feeling of his finger pushing into you slowly. As an afterthought, that hot sticky feeling in your abdomen spreading, you add, “Ice, ice baby.”

John pumps his finger in and out, eliciting a high noise from your gay ass—your uh, mouth, not your actual ass, that was a figure of speech—and he snickers against the side of your face. “You have been thinking about that song this whole time, haven’t you,” he giggles.

“What can I say, you’re providing that good AC to my rockin bod and if my—” you gasp a little as he moves his finger again, “if my brain decides vanilla ice is going to be my sex soundtrack then I’m not going to begrudge it the sensual pleasures of rap genius.”

You feel another finger pushing into you careful and agonizingly slow. “You’re tight today,” John remarks, capturing your lips again as he rocks his fingers into your now double stuffed ass.

Hmm. Not sure how you feel about that oreo pun you just made. There’s a certain sex fluid that obviously resembles the milky white oreo cream filling, much more than fingers do, so maybe you should have waited until—

You are unable to complete that thought because John slips his free hand under your ass and lifts you so his fingers slide in deeper and _oh fuck that’s a good angle_. “Fuck, yes, John,” you tilt your head back and whine in an attempt to communicate your approval.

Your eyes are closed, but you assume John smiles at your classic bottomy antics. Maybe he gives your vulnerable, mostly naked, taught body a sultry look-see. Or something like that. Honestly, you think he must’ve disappearified his glasses, so he probably can’t see much of jack anything.

John pumps his fingers again and scissors them a little to stretch you open, leaning down again to kiss you. “Anyway, I would not have sex with you to vanilla ice,” he mutters against your lips. “I would, however, have sex with you to Queen. Or to David Bowie”

You gasp, mostly because of his blatant refusal to acknowledge Vanilla Ice’s big dick energy. Possibly also because he has two fingers knuckle deep in you. “You’re suggesting you would fuck me to Under Pressure and not to Ice Ice Baby? Is that what you’re suggesting? That’s fuckin nuts, you’re all kinds of loony,” you tell him.

John sits up and lifts one of your knees to kiss along your inner thigh. And he looks you right in the eyes as he does it, the bastard. “Whaaaat? Dave, you are being irrational. Queen’s entire discography is inarguably sex soundtrack material.”

You shake your head. “Yeah, I’m not arguing with you there, and I could probably come just by thinking about David Bowie’s face, but listen, Ice Ice Baby is sexy.”

“Nope, false and wrong," John tells you. You’re about to come up with some witty retort, but he pulls his fingers out of you far too quickly. When you whine and arch your back, he splays a refreshingly cold hand over your hips. “Hahaha, you are such a bottom. It is funny, really,” he says matter-of-factly as he slicks his dick up with whatever freaky ectoplasmic lube he keeps conjuring.

You just moan and tilt your hips up expectantly. “No shit. I can’t believe you solved the mystery of my sexual preferences. That’s incredible John. Now if you could get your ghost wanker up my asshole, that would be fan-fuckin-tastic, just perfect—”

“Oh, stop talking,” John interrupts, leaning in to kiss you before lining the tip of his dick up against your opening. It’s nice and cold on your skin. You brace your neck against the arm of the couch and try not to be too loud—you don’t wanna worry the neighbors—as your boyfriend’s dick pushes slowly into you. John sighs beautifully and cartoon sex flowers bloom behind your eyelids because oh, yes, _this is the life_.

He waits until he’s entered you fully to place both hands on your hips. You wiggle a little, adjusting, and then rock up into him with a strained noise. He starts thrusting methodically into you, keeping the pace pretty fucking lively because this is not a candlelit first time, this is two roomies fucking on the couch because they’re too horny to even go to the bedroom. Which you have no problems with whatsoever. The pace, you mean. Or the locale. It’s goddamn perfect.

You brace one hand against the side of the couch and gasp between labored breaths. “Fuck, yes, just—” you tilt your hips a little more and oh yeah baby he hits the _good spot_ , yes, that’s the ticket right fucking there, that’s the money shot. You rock up into him with increased urgency and his hands gratifyingly tighten on your hips.

“Oh god you’re so handsome,” John tells you. What a sweetheart. “Dave, I’m close.”

You almost pull some “Hello close, I’m dad” shit but think the better of it. Instead you just nod, moan your heart out, and thrust into him at that good angle as hard as you can. You brush hair out of your face with your free hand and leave your arm hanging over your forehead. “Me too, fuck, John,” you gasp out.

Another couple moments of hard thrusting and you lifting your hips a foot off the fuckin couch, and you feel John’s movement stutter as he comes. You guess he’s still working his wintery magic, because instead of heat you feel him spill something thick and cold into you. He reaches a hand up to give you one quick squeeze and you come just like that, your own un-chilled fluids spilling hot and sticky onto your stomach. You are fucking glad he has popsicle cum now.

You lean your head back and smile up at the ceiling, eyes closed. “I fucking love you.”

John’s still in you, and he takes his goddamn time pulling out. Finally he sits up and scooches you over to the side of the couch so he can lay down next to you. Which is never really an arrangement that works, because your couch is not large, and you always end up about to fall off until he—catches you with his big ghost yaoi hands or whatever and lifts you to lay on top of him. Yeah. That’s nice. Sticky dude juice on your stomach aside, you’re comfortable, and John is cooler than all other surfaces in the house right now.

You sigh and turn your head sideways on his chest. He puts a hand in your hair.

“I fucking love you too.” He says. The sound of his almost-lifelike ghost breathing soothes your mammalian comfort centers. Your brain decides it’s time to beat the heat and take a fucking nap.

Horny ghost sated, chilly nap spot located. Mission accomplished. _Breath of the Wild_ can wait until you’re well and done sleeping on John.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my drafts for literally a year so I decided to just,,, post it already. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Warnings: ghost sex, magic ghost lube, magic ghost air conditioning powers, dave being a huge twink, ghost dick


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